You hate traffic. The fact that you’ve been sitting in it for the last two hours has done little to quell the anger simmering inside you from your awful work day. If you were inclined to believe you had any rope left, you’d be at its end.
So when traffic is finally starting to clear and the cheese-dick douche in the red Miata decides now – now – would be a good time to cut you off, your mind’s grip slips free of the last twined threads of sanity and your judgment plunges into the furious abyss of blind rage.
Eyes locked on the jackass, you dig in your center console for anything hard and heavy. You find an old lug cover. Without stopping to wonder why it isn’t installed on your car or if you’ll need it later, you gun the accelerator, speeding up alongside the Miata, and chunk the lug as hard as you can at Asshole Numero Uno.
While you intended to shatter a window or give one of his body panels a dent to remember, your ass-reddening furor blinded you to the fact that the top of the convertible was down. Your aim his high and the lug cracks dickhat in the left temple.
Slick slumps in his seat, his hands fall from the steering wheel and the sports car veers of the roadway, hitting and embankment before performing a series of flips and rolls that can only be described as spectacular.
You keep driving right past your exit.
You were looking for an excuse to grow a beard.